Square Roots and Radicals
by BrokenSolitude
Summary: A Metalocalypse PREQUEL- The year is 1987. The music is loud, the fashions louder. And for one Charles Foster Offdensen, it's still not loud enough for his liking. Follow the journey from wild rebel to refined millionaire, and see how Dethklok started!
1. Chapter 1

**Square Roots and Radicals- a Metalocalypse fanfic**

**A/N:** I'm baaaack! With something small to get the juices flowing again before I get back to work on "Contingency Plan" and "Jailklok." This is actually something I've wanted to do for a very long time now- my personal take on the events- as usual, being very Charles oriented- that led up to the formation of Dethklok and his involvement with them. This story goes hand in hand with my one shot, "Off the Clock," which you can find on my main page. So, in short, welcome to my very first Metalocalypse PREQUEL. If you don't like being ever so slightly- and purposely- confused, get out now. If you stay, read on, reader!

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

The alarm clock sounded viciously, but the young man in the bed- on top of it? Tangled up in it?- barely moved. It wasn't until his headache kicked in that his hand finally shot out and tried to beat the life out of modern technology.

Charlie Offdensen moaned, his hair sticking to his already sweating face. It was a scorching summer day. He had to get up. He knew he had to get up. But actually doing it was a completely different story.

Seven o'clock in the morning was far too early after the party he'd been to the night before. The waves of a mild hangover crashed over him, and he almost wretched into his pillows, which were soaked with sweat and who knew what other fluids. Last night's lovely lady was, apparently, long gone, though he found, as he rolled over, she had left behind a calling card- her panties were still between the wrinkled sheets of the unoccupied side of the bed. Charlie smiled to himself knowingly. He'd see her again.

Finally, he roused enough energy to sit up, immediately feeling the weight of reality crash into him. He swooned for a moment, before tiredly searching for the power button on his stereo. Instantly, he felt better, as the Fixx started curing his headache. He stood, oh so carefully, before stumbling into the adjacent bathroom, finding his date from the evening hours had also left her lipstick on the edge of his sink. He smirked, feeling the weight of it in his palm before placing it in his medicine cabinet. She'd be back. They usually were.

The radio was so loud it was nearly crystal clear while he showered, starting to feel a little more human. Midnight Oil, Missing Persons…he hummed along to them all. He clambered out of the shower and shaved, being careful not to cut himself while he uncontrollably tapped his foot to the music. Successfully completing this task, he set to work blow drying, brushing, and styling his hair. It was a labor of love- Charlie often heard he had beautiful hair. It was past his shoulders, just wavy enough on it's own to not have to worry much about, and just manageable enough that his employers didn't say much about it. As he flipped it over his face and began to brush out the underside, the stereo decided it would humor him with a little Huey Lewis and the News. He grinned under his hair, and began to belt out "I Want a New Drug" as loud as he could manage, pre- morning coffee.

It was no secret that Charlie Offdensen had a passion for music. He was an absolute nerd for music. It showed in how he handled his day, the people he hung out with, what he did for fun, the way he carried and conducted himself, and in his unbelievable collection of 8 tracks, records, and cassettes.

Lumbering out of the bathroom after tugging on a clean pair of underwear, Charlie sleepily headed towards the kitchen, leaving the bedroom door open to continue the stream of incredible music that lifted his spirits and made him feel as though he were flying- and not in the "just dropped acid" sort of way, though he wasn't unfamiliar with that sensation, either. He sang his way through a block of Poison and Ratt, air guitar-ed to Autograph, and drummed on the table to Styx while he waited for the coffee to brew. He was barely aware of making some toast and shoving it into his mouth as he recalled the events of the previous night, before he had arrived home. It had been amazing, as it was every time it happened.

The coffee finished, and he poured it black, stuck it in the refrigerator for a few minutes while he tidied up, and then sucked it down, feeling it's still-hot sting burn his sensitive throat. And then he chanced a glance at the clock, and nearly spit said beverage out all over the table.

Charlie swallowed, choking, and then dashed back into his bedroom. He practically threw himself into his closet, searching for clean clothes. He hadn't been to the laundromat in a while. He cursed when he realized he had no clean dress shirts, knowing his boss would be excruciatingly unhappy. He groaned, and debated quickly between the silk paisley or a plain black t shirt. Settling on the t shirt, he groped for a jacket to match his aqua slacks. Finally, he got his hands on the matching jacket, and threw himself on the bed, wriggling into his clothes as fast as he could, and keeping a nervous eye on the time. Now…where were his shoes?

His shirt and pants finally on, he spotted his leather belt across the room where he had inattentively dropped it, and flipped himself, worming to the edge of the bed and hanging over. Ah. There were his shoes. Must've gotten kicked under the night before. He reached for them, just making it when the phone rang. He didn't have time to catch the call, however, so he let the answering machine pick up as he tugged on his black wing tips and hastily tied the laces. Scrabbling for his belt, he pulled it through with caution, making sure he caught every belt loop, and then fished around on top his bureau for his glasses. His big, dorky glasses. He supposed it could be worse, however. At least he had great hair.

And then he was off, snatching his briefcase up from the table and his keys off the hook beside the door. His car was, unfortunately, in the shop, so he was winging it from there on out.

He had one arm through the sleeve of his jacket when he reached the edge of the sidewalk and tried to stop dead. Traffic was heavy- he supposed he was faster on foot anyway. He'd spent his childhood roaming all over Ohio and wearing his sneakers out in a couple weeks time, much to the anger of his father and the quiet, tutting dismay of his mother. And now here was there, in San Francisco, trying to make a living and trying to strike it rich, like everyone else.

The light changed color, and he was running again, people watching him in curiosity as he booked it down the street as fast as he could, hair flying, briefcase in tow. He nearly slammed into a couple sidewalk occupants, but avoided them at the last second. He kept a careful eye on the face of his watch, palms beginning to sweat nervously when he realized he had five minutes to get to a destination that was at least six away.

"Shit. He's not gonna be happy about this…" Charlie muttered to himself, turning the corner and slowing down ever so slightly as he moved throughout the throngs of people. Pointedly worming his way through amassed bodies, he sighed. He could see the building he was headed for, towering six blocks away.

"Hey! Charlie! What's da haps, bro?" The man behind the food cart smiled at him, and Charlie waved a hand in greeting.

"Gonna be late…no time to talk!" He said breathlessly, and then darted across the street when he had an unobstructed shot at the crosswalk.

Buildings, windows, people…they all flew by in a multi-colored blur. Sprinting the rest of the distance, Charlie's breath came hot and heavy. He forced himself to speed up, forced himself to block out the searing pain in his chest and legs, and just kept running. In this home stretch stupor, he ducked in the door of the formidable office building with exactly four seconds to spare.

Charlie gasped, a few lobby occupants looking at him like he had just announced he was engaged to a hobo. His eyelids fluttered shut, and all he could see was pulsating red that beat in time with the roaring in his ears and the pounding of his heart. He wiped his forehead with his jacket sleeve, trying to readjust his hair before neatly pulling it back and securing it in a subdued ponytail. Straightening his jacket, he stood, nodded at the curious eyes that followed him as he marched past the front desk.

Externally, he looked unflappable. Completely cool. But internally, his stomach was wrenching itself into knots. He just had to make it to his cubicle. Then he could relax. No one would rat him out. No one would know!

He jabbed at the elevator button with a trembling finger, and then resumed tapping his foot, waiting impatiently for it to descend to ground floor. He tried to stay calm. But then, suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He felt panicky. He just wanted to turn around and run back out the double glass doors, and never look back.

The door slid open. He gulped, and stepped inside the elevator, absent-mindedly pressing the button to close the door on his way in. No one had been behind him. Then, he nearly jumped in fright. A hand slammed into the closing door and triggered the sensor that made it slide back open.

"You know it's rude to shut doors in people's faces." Charlie's eyes closed again, and his mouth went dry.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"We'll see about that. But my, an improper greeter, too?"

"Good morning, sir."

"Good morning to you, too, Charles."

All decorum was suddenly lost. The elevator doors slid shut, and it was just the two of them in the small metal box, both on their way to the same floor.

"It's _Charlie._ How many times do I have to tell you that? My name. Is. _Charlie_. Charles is-" He was cut off, mid rant.

"Is what, boy? Is a stupid name? Is an old person's name?" Green eyes stared him down, and Charlie suddenly felt very, very small.

"I…was, ah…just going to say it's your name."

The size of the elevator seemed to decrease rapidly, even though no one spoke, and no one moved. The triangular patterned carpet and the gilded brass trimming in the elevator crashed into the remnants of Charlie's hangover, and he felt dizzy.

Suddenly his companion shifted, staring straight ahead at the door, clutching his briefcase tighter by his side.

"It's your name, too." He commented offhandedly. Not necessarily angry, but none-too-pleased, either.

"I…I know, sir. I just…I prefer Charlie." It was hopeless. He'd never win this battle. He never won any of them.

They neared their floor. Charlie's companion cleared his throat.

"In my office. Ten minutes. Or will you be late for that, too?"

"Hey! I wasn-"

"Save it, Charles. We'll talk in ten." The older man snapped, squaring his shoulders in such a formidable way that Charlie couldn't look at him anymore.

The metal cage _dinged_, and the doors slid open. The older man stepped out and briskly walked off without another word, greeting choruses following him down the hall. Charlie winced, trudging off towards his cubicle in the opposite direction, and plopped down in his chair. He eyed his watch with disdain, switching off between staring at the ceiling while spinning the chair in circles, and thrumming his fingers on the desk. There was no point in even settling in. He had a nagging feeling that he wasn't going to make it through to lunch, anyway.

At the nine minute mark, Charlie rose, silently stalking down the row of cubicles and rounding the corner. Finally, at the end of that row, he reached a heavy office door. He paused for a moment, his fingers tracing the embossed gold name on the window. And then he let himself in.

The secretary looked up in alarm, but then relaxed. It was only Charlie.

"Morning." She called, cocking her head in a silent question. Charlie's shoulders sagged.

"Mornin.' He's, ah…he's expecting me." Her eyes softened, the softness rivaling the dusty rose color of her suit.

"Go right in, then, Charlie. And good luck." She smiled reassuringly and both hands, crossing her fingers on each. He swallowed over the cactus-like dryness in his throat, and pushed open the door.

The same commanding man sat in the high-backed office chair, having swiveled it so he stared out the window in thought. Without turning, he addressed Charlie.

"Shut the door and take a seat."

Wordlessly, Charlie did so, his fingers thrumming on the tan armchair. The man behind the desk finally turned, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

"Harvard called again."

"Uh huh."

"They wanted to know what you're planning on doing."

"I…haven't decided yet." This lackadaisical answer seemed to frustrate the older man, who glared daggers at the younger.

"Dammit, Charles, this is your whole _life_ we're talking about! Have some goddamn responsibility!" Now it was Charlie's turn to grow angry. He figured it was all downhill from here on out- yelling wouldn't make it much worse.

"I have plenty! I moved out, didn't I?"

"Yeah, into a tiny dump of an apartment that you share with three other slimeballs on occasion. Roof still leak in the kitchen?"

Charlie teetered between seething rage and quiet acceptance. He shook with emotion in the chair, fighting back the urge to stand up and loom over the desk that separated them.

"I know what I pay you, and I know what that apartment costs. Yet your car's been out of commission for a week and a half, you show up here, barely dressed, and you look like you haven't seen a good barber in years! Where does it all go, Charles? Food? Booze? Drugs?" He looked concerned and nauseated at the same time.

"Pfft. As if!" Charlie barely realized he said that out loud before he turned bright pink. An uncomfortable silence followed.

"Go ahead. Tell me then. What do you do with all your money?"

Charlie balked at the thought of opening his mouth again, but the eyes that bored holes into him held him a captive to the older man's will. He had no choice but to speak the truth.

"Some of it. _Some _of it goes to food. I don't drink or do drugs (Charlie was blatantly lying, there, but he did mostly avoid the hard stuff. They weren't his thing)."

"Continue."

"The rest…goes into…music." He stuttered, a cold sweat beading up on his pale skin.

"What kind of music, Charles?" The older man was goading him. Charlie could feel it. And this time, he wasn't sure it not giving in would even make a difference.

"You know _damn_ well what kind of music, _Dad_."

Ice. Ice flowed through the air vents now, and into both their veins. The use of such a familiar term in the workplace had been strictly forbidden. Yet, it seemed to break the unaddressed tension between them.

Charlie glared at his father from under a few locks of the bangs of his hair. His father. Charles Cornelius Offdensen. Financial wizard. Infamous business man. And strict, but attentive father and husband. He loved his father deeply, but hated him at the same time. And never more than in that moment alone.

"It's that rock and roll bullshit, isn't it?" Charles asked softly. Charlie, on the other hand, was still fuming.

"Well, maybe if you'd come to a fuckin' show once in a while, you'd know!"

"Watch your mouth!" Charles barked, instantly shutting his son up and settling him back in the chair. His rage abating, he, too, settled down, smoothing his neatly clipped hair back.

"So, do you plan on becoming a famous rock star in this little band of yours? Is that why you're avoiding Harvard and Yale like the plague? Is that why you're in community college for liberal arts?"

"Maybe."

"Don't get belligerent with me. My God, cut the crap! It's 1987, and you're 19 years old, Charles! Wake up! This rock nonsense- and, heaven forbid you like this, this…_metal_ thing…it's just a fad! A passing phase! It's going to die out, and when it does, you'll be up a creek without a paddle. Your mother and I…we just want to see you succeed, Charles. We want you be able to support yourself, and a family someday. We want to see that happen for you, and we want to see you make enough to comfortably retire, and put your own kids through college. We didn't raise you to take this kind of risk. You'd be throwing your life away!"

Charlie gasped, his back automatically straightening as the truth came out. It reminded him of his school years. Catholic school. And then preparatory school. All those uptight yuppies…he grimaced at the memories.

Charlie Offdensen hated the establishment. He hated working as an accountant for a big commercial money-sucker, even if it _was_ owned by his own father. He hated the pressure, hated the constant _tack tack_ of fingers on keys, hated the water cooler conversations that were really just cover-ups for how miserable everyone else was. He hated industry, big business, and corporate takeover more than he had words to express.

But most of all, he hated wearing a suit to work every day.

His father noticed his son's discomfort, and backed off, his strategy shifting. He walked around the front of his desk and leaned against the edge of it. The silver hair at his temples shimmered in the sunlight streaming through the window. It backlit the older man- put shadows on his face that no one could mistake for laugh lines. Charlie stared up at his father, noting just how the light turned him into some sort of higher deity. Lighting was always very important in such a setting. Suddenly, his face softened into a small, knowing smile.

"Elvis Presley."

"What about him?" Charlie was cautious.

"He was my hero for a long time. He was the king, after all." The older Offdensen looked nostalgic.

"And?" The executive chuckled at his son's ignorance. He'd grow out of it someday, and see the world for what it really was. After all, that's what happened to him. Only it had taken a special girl and an impending child to make him see reason instead of rebellion. Perhaps it would be similar for Charlie (though, his father hoped marriage would occur before he was made a grandfather. It hadn't been the case for him and Grace).

"Look, son. What's I'm saying is that you can like any music you want to like. Your mother and I…we thought you'd outgrow it by the time high school was finished, but I can see that's obviously not going to happen. But still. You have to think of the future. Let's say one of your band members quits. What would you do then?"

"Enlist another."

"And if the popular music changes direction in a few years? Would you give up what you built your career on to follow a new trend in the hopes that it will stick around, or keep going and lose your fanbase and your money? Either way, you lose, in the end."

Charlie was more stunned than hurt, though his heart was breaking. Whether he liked it or not, his father was right. Things were definitely changing. Music was changing. Some of it not for the better. He had known all along that he could only enjoy himself for so long. Spending a lifetime in uptight setting after uptight setting had made him antsy and sullen. After graduation, he'd jumped in his Camaro and just driven. He hadn't said goodbye to anyone, taken nothing with him- he just went, cap and gown and all. Two weeks later he'd returned, announced he was moving out, and loaded his things into his car and driven them into town. Being independent only went so far when you worked at your father's accounting firm, however. Still, he had perfect grades. Ivy League schools were fighting over him. He had plenty of scholarships under his belt. He knew he should cool out and cut his hair.

Yet, in that moment, something snapped inside little Charlie Offdensen, and he was filled with a sort of sordid determination to go down with his ship. His beloved musical vessel that kept him afloat, even on the worst of days.

"Huuh luuwes sais da hurt aff rackn rullish shtill beading." He mumbled. His father raised an eyebrow.

"Speak up, Charles."

"Huey Lewis says the heart of rock and roll is still beating." Charles glared fiercely into his father's surprised green eyes, which rolled in response.

"Oh please. You're still obsessed with him? For six years now, it's been 'Huey Lewis' this and 'Huey Lewis' that. Do you still ask the paper boy if he's heard the news?" The elder Offdensen was incredulous, the younger feeling rather petulant.

"Yeah, and for your information, he has. But you'll see. You and mom. You'll both see. Everyone's gonna see! I can do this. I'm gonna make it. I'm gonna be a famous rock and roll star. It's never gonna die, Dad! Don't you get it? The people keep it alive!" Charlie had risen from his chair with stars in his eyes and a song in his heart (which was actually "Jukebox Hero" by Foreigner, but he wasn't about to break out in song now). His father towered over him, even leaning (he had his mother's height, eyes, and ears), but he still felt like the Incredible Hulk. Charlie waited with bated breath for his father's response.

"I see. Well, it's your life, Charles."

"Exactly."

"You can do with it what you want."

"I will."

"So if you think you're so ready to be a rock star, I suppose there's no point in me keeping you employed here. I'm sure you'll make enough money on your own."

And there went the dream. Charlie stood there uncomfortably for a moment, thoughts panning between the two extremes of walking triumphantly out the door and making the world listen to him, or sitting down and begging for forgiveness.

Charles Cornelius Offdensen turned his back and started rifling through a file cabinet to the left of his desk, smirking to himself knowingly. His son had a good heart. If he truly thought he could make it that easy, then who was he to stand in the way of progress? After all, he knew the boy was talented, anyway. He was stubborn as an ox, and just as quick witted as the man who pondered his own offspring at that moment. He would be fine on his own.

"Ah…alright, then. I'm as good as gone. Thanks for the job, Dad. It's been real."

"I'll start the paperwork, then. Good luck out there, Charles."

Charlie turned and made for the door with a false spring in his step. He was out the door and collecting his personal effects while his father settled back into his seat of power. The high, leather backed throne and the heavy oak desk made him feel the weight of the importance he held.

He smiled when he thought of what it would be like to see Charles Foster Offdensen achieve the same level of power on his own.

Out the door, down the hall, and into the elevator. The farther away he got from his stuffy cubicle, the better and more light-hearted Charlie felt. By the time he reached ground floor, he practically crossed the lobby with excited leaps and bounds, throwing open the doors with a huge smile on his face. He began the trek home, then suddenly stopped, and turned back. He paced the front of the building for a moment, before settling in on one particular chunk of sidewalk, raising his hands to cup his mouth, and taking a deep breath.

"AND MY NAME'S NOT CHARLES! IT'S SMOOTH CHARLIE!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Charlie wandered down the sidewalk at a snail's pace, one hand in his pocket, the other languidly holding on to the briefcase he hoped he would never have to use again.

He was being ripped in two from the inside out, it seemed. On the one hand, he was elated over getting fired- something almost everyone he knew would never say. A hair blew in front of his eyes- he brushed it out of the way. Odd. It seemed the wind had suddenly changed directions.

He also knew that getting fired meant he would have a great deal of planning and thinking to do that evening. How would he pay his bills? His rent? He needed food, necessities, gasoline, and guitar strings. His roommates would likely be of little help. Charlie didn't hate the fact that they mooched off of him most of the time, but he couldn't say it thrilled him, either.

That same pesky hair blew in front of his eyes after a particularly strong gust of wind as he came to the end of the block. It wasn't too crowded- after all, this was the corporate district, and it was early morning work hours. Said hair was followed by half his bangs, and he cursed softly as he tried to flip them back to where they belonged.

A sudden hand on his shoulder that gently pulled him backwards made him jump a mile. He nearly shrieked, holding himself back at the last second, so all that came out was a small puff of air. Charlie parted his curtain of hair in the middle and stared out from under it, incredulous.

"You almost fell off the edge of the sidewalk!"

Charlie chanced a glance down, noticing his foot had just been about to slip off the concrete. That would have resulted in hurt pride and a likely sprained ankle. With a small, miffed sound, he straightened up and brushed his hair back with one hand.

"Ah….thank you. I, uh…I guess I should look where I'm going. I'm sorry for the trouble." He murmured. There was something about the man that had saved him from such an embarrassment that made his head ache unpleasantly. Or, perhaps it was just last night's party hangover creeping back up on him. Yes. That had to be it. People didn't give other people headaches simply by looking at them. He was being foolish.

The older man shrugged, removing his hand from the back of Charlie's blue jacket. He looked rather kindly. Charlie took just a brief moment to study him, his mind churning suddenly with the question of why he didn't turn around and immediately beg for his job back.

Tall. Broad shouldered. Strong-featured. He wore what looked to be an extremely expensive Armani suit. Piercing gray eyes. He looked to be highly intelligent, Charlie thought. And suave. He was rather wrinkled in the face, but his hands were strong and muscular. He also sported a neat goatee, and snow-white hair that was pulled back into a tight ponytail.

"'S alright. Would you like a cigarette?" He offered, sliding a pair of dark sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose from his jacket pocket. Charlie immediately went to lift his watch-bearing wrist to his face, but then remembered- he didn't have anywhere special to be. So he nodded, and leaned against the street-light post at the corner, gratefully taking the cigarette and the offered light. The other man lit up, as well.

"Where were you off to in such a hurry?"

Charlie shrugged, gaze following the trickle of passersby and the steady stream of cars.

"Nowhere, really. Home. Maybe to drop in on a friend. I, ah…I just got fired." He couldn't hide his smile, and the older man's head turned to observe him.

"Really? Now there's a sentiment that doesn't usually put a smile on anyone's face." He had a very deep voice, Charlie noticed, though why he took notice, he wasn't sure. He felt like…something was off. He was sure it was just last night getting to him again. Instead of questioning this further, he took a drag off the cigarette and puffed it out with a short chuckle.

"Well, it's better than working as an accountant for the rest of my life." A small, barely visible smirk seemed to cross the older man's lips. The corners twinged- that was about it.

"You seem like a smart young man. What is it that you'd rather do?"

Suddenly, Charlie felt sheepish. He was just complimented so nicely, and was about to throw it away by saying he wanted to be a rock star? The rebellious part of him took over again, then, and answered for him.

"I'd like to become a professional musician." There. That sounded better than rock star, at least. His headache deepened, and he lifted a hand to rub at his temples.

"Ah. Well, that's respectable. Are you alright?" The white-haired businessman queried, staring straight ahead, but having caught the motion out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah, I, ah…have a terrible headache, all of a sudden. It's probably just the, ah…celebration from last night catching up to me." He shook his head to try to clear it, trying to center his thoughts on something pleasant. A familiar tune struck up inside his mind, and he relaxed, his headache fading away almost instantly.

Beside him, the older gentleman seemed to start, and his head whipped around. He stared at Charlie over the rims of his sunglasses, usually stony eyes a mixture of surprise, condemnation, and rage. He seemed to smile again, and raised a brow.

"Oh, well that _is_ interesting…" He murmured. Charlie turned slightly to look at him, confused, his cigarette nearly finished.

"What is?"

"Just that you were celebrating last night. It's sort of ironic- there was a terrible fire in Buena Vista then. Killed twelve people." It was smooth, it was classy, and it was classically _him._ Charlie's face fell. He looked deflated.

"Ah. Well, that's terrible. Did you know any of them?"

"No, not personally. Thank you for asking, though."

Silence. Charlie vaguely realized he was still being sized up behind dark lenses, and began to feel uncomfortable. His cigarette finished, he dropped the butt to the ground and stepped on it.

"Well, thanks for the cigarette, and thank you, again, for saving me. I didn't realize I was so close to the edge. See you around." He said the last bit flatly as he turned and clipped the crosswalk briskly to get to the next block between sets of traffic.

The white-haired man twisted, his own cigarette long since extinguished, but breathed out a puff of smoke nonetheless. He began to walk down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, and seemed to shimmer slightly- as though he wasn't really there at all. Many who saw this and thought it strange would chalk it up to heat distortion. But a few discerning eyes (which would be dealt with over the years accordingly) would just briefly make out the shift in hair styles, in clothing…to a long flowing mane and heavy armor. The air around him seemed electric with an energy that had long sat, stagnant and waiting. The man chuckled, his voice now obviously different. More rasping- like a screaming whisper.

"Oh, little Charles- you have no idea how close you really are."

With that, Mr. Selatcia wove his way in and out of throngs of people, until looking back over his shoulder would have done Charlie Offdensen no good, as the older man would disappear from his immediate sight for many, many years.

* * *

><p>Someone fell into step beside him as he passed the food vendor's stand once more, on the way back to his home. He glanced over. He didn't need any more strange people approaching him that morning.<p>

But it was only the food vendor, wiping his hands on his apron and looking at Charlie with concern.

"Hey, bro! Why you here? You look like you've seen a ghost, man! And why you outta work so early?"

Charlie sighed. He was already tired. That headache…it had just sucked the life out of him. He could practically _feel_ the bags forming under his eyes.

"I got fired, Joe."

Joe wasn't Joe's real name. Joe was from Hawaii- but he had found most people had problems taking him seriously in the connected forty-eight with such a flowery Hawaiian name, and had simply defected to Joe.

"Damn, bro! I'm sorry- how bad did the _nui-kane_ rattle your ass?"

Charlie shook his head. His thoughts were clouded- he couldn't seem to get back to that happy place he'd been in prior to nearly tripping off the sidewalk. He felt like there was some sort of pressure in his head that was preventing him from being himself. He needed more sleep. And a few shots of Jack.

A name kept rolling around in his mind, and he wasn't sure why, or even who it belonged to. It had just…popped up. And it didn't even make any sense. It sounded like some sort of horrible Lovecraftian monster or Orwellian machinery. He knew it was a name, knew what it sounded like…but he couldn't quite bring it to the forefront of his thoughts. Like the others, the sudden storm his consciousness was struggling to sail through, it was stuck, awash on the heady current.

"Not too bad…he was pissed that I was late, but I don't think that's, ah, why he fired me."

Joe nodded solemnly. Something else had happened- he just didn't know what. And he wasn't the type to pry. He was, however, the type to guide, so plastering a broad smile to his face, he grabbed Charlie's elbow and made a quick u-turn with him, headed back towards the food cart.

"C'mon, brotha- we'll get you some _ono_ foods, and you can relax." Charlie nodded glumly, his hands in his pockets. He looked depressed. Joe stewed for a moment, trying to think of a better way to help his friend. He could find none, however- Charlie wasn't usually the type to actually _require_ cheering up.

"Hey, Joe?"

"Yeah bro?" This surprised him.

"Have you ever…have you heard of…ah…name of…hm." Charlie blinked, earnestly confused. Joe was shooting him a wary glance.

"Heard what, bro?" Charlie shook his head again.

"Ah…nevermind. I forgot what I was going to say. What's on the menu today?"

Truth be told, he hadn't forgotten. He couldn't make his lips form the word. His mind and mouth didn't seem to be connected, suddenly. It was stuck in his mind. And as soon as he started thinking about it, it vaporized, and he forgot all about it.

Of course, he wouldn't need to know the name "Dethklok" for quite a while.

And, if Mr. Selatcia had been just a second too late, if Charles Foster Offdensen had tripped off that sidewalk and sprained his ankle, the Metalocalypse would never have begun in the first place.

But it happened. And, eventually, Charlie would have to deal with it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

A heavy sigh scattered the hairs that hung over his forehead. Charlie groaned, burying his face in his hands as he sat as his kitchen table later that evening. His glasses had long been discarded on the table, and he was trying to force away the ache behind his eyes.

Papers. Papers were spread out all over the surface of the table, and Charlie had been pouring over all of them for the last three hours, nearly falling into a rhythm- pick up one and scowl, then put it down. Pick up another from the opposite side, then one from the middle, and compare. Shake head. Put papers down. Repeat.

As Joe Elliot crooned "Photograph" to him over the radio, Charlie became acutely aware of another sound in his tiny abode- and looked up between his fingers to see the front door open.

"Hey, Charlie! You home?" A voice coughed. He sighed again.

"Yeah. I'm in the kitchen, Shane."

Shane stepped through the door, followed by two other men who tumbled in, rowdy and far too loud for the likings of Charlie's headache. He slumped in his chair, feeling increasingly moody.

"Hey, man, what's eatin' you?" Shane asked, pulling his t shirt over his head and nearly getting stuck in it.

"Got fired today, and I have a headache." Came the gruff reply.

Shane made a face, throwing his shirt haphazardly against the chair at the opposite side of the kitchen table, but missed, and it hit the floor. He didn't pay it any attention, which immediately got on Charlie's nerves.

"Man, that's awful. 'M sorry." Shane sighed, and looked over his shoulder. "Sleaze! Bulldog! Have a heart, will ya? Charlie got fired today!"

Charlie moaned, head hanging forward, as Shane's raspy yell rippled through his mind. His vision fuzzed, and he thought he was going to be sick. Today had not been a great day. And that shirt was still on the floor.

Shane wandered around the kitchen, opening cabinets and the refrigerator in succession and scanning the items inside. He didn't seem pleased with the selection, and so returned to prying into his friend's personal life, grabbing up a handful of bills and receipts from the table and critically eyeballing them.

"What _is_ all this, Smooth? Thought you said you got fired today." Charlie scowled again and snatched the papers back, then pushed his chair back. Oh, God, he could see the sleeve of the shirt on his floor…

"I _did_, man. I gotta budget the rest of my bank account for the upkeep of this place and for, ah, food and shit, until I get another job, or else nobody eats and we're trading the apartment for a three bedroom cardboard condo." He bent down and gathered the shirt up in his arms and rounded the corner, placing it in the laundry basket in the bathroom before grabbing a broom. He hated mess. He hated dirt. He hadn't even made his bed that morning…what was the world coming to?

Shane watched this all with a jonesing eye, and started to feel uncomfortable in his own skin. He needed to take the edge off.

"Well, listen. Me an' the guys are goin' out tonight, Smooth. You're welcome to come. Y'know, it might make ya feel better."

Charlie stopped sweeping and leaned heavily on the broom handle, looking at Shane like he'd just been struck dumb.

"Did you hear _anything_ I just said!? We can't go out! We don't have the finances for that!" He felt helpless. Sometimes, there was no getting through to these guys. When they were hellbent on something, he was hard-pressed to sway them. It usually ended up in a friendly fist-fight or a yelling match.

Shane rolled his eyes and elbowed his way past the flustered accountant, who gaped at him like a hungry goldfish. He took Charlie's previous place in the bathroom and began to rifle through everyone's things, looking for his own personal menagerie of hair-care products. Upon finding them, he flipped his honey- blond hair to one side and began to tease it into place.

"Man, you worry too much! It's my treat." He called, and watched a quelled figure appear in the bathroom doorway, propped up against the frame.

"Shane, you haven't even paid me back your share of the rent for the last four months. You think I'm gonna let you leave here tonight and blow that money on drinks and dancing?"

In answer, one of Shane's hands dove into his pants pocket, and pulled out a roll of bills, tossing them at Charlie, who caught them in confusion.

"There's your pay. With interest. Now can we go out?" He whined, spraying his hair violently with an all-night fixative.

Charlie looked down at the wad of money in his hand, then back up at Shane, and back down at his hand. A slow smile broke across his face, and traversed the flesh covered gap from ear to ear.

"Huh. Awesome!" He commented, tossing the roll up and down in his hand to feel the physical weight of it. "Like…this is really awesome!" He caught the roll in mid-air and turned, still grinning.

Charlie disappeared into his bedroom and threw himself headfirst into his closet for the second time that day. He found his tiny safe and quickly dialed it open. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to protect his money. Counting out the amount and frowning, he put what he had in the safe, shut it, and returned to the bathroom, where Shane had finished his hair and was pulling on a pair of mesh gloves.

"You shorted me, Shane."

Shane snorted.

"No, I took into account the stereo part you bummed offa me last week. It don't come cheap, Smooth."

Charlie sighed, and smiled.

"Alright. As long as it's your treat…I'll go tonight. Gimme five to get ready."

* * *

><p>"Charlie, this is Corrinne." Sleaze announced, hiccupping, and gestured awkwardly to the girl by his side. Corrinne smiled and extended her hand towards him cordially.<p>

"Pleased to meet you, Charlie. I saw the show last night- great job. You're amazing!"

Charlie was still trying to find the word "hello" in his frozen mind, let alone a way to receive the compliment. He felt breathless. She was a vision in white. A dream. An angel. At least, to him.

And his blood boiled when Sleaze threw a drunken arm around her waist and held her closer.

"Ah…thank you." He finally said, anger giving him the power to think clearly.

"Y'know…Chhaaar…Chaaarlie here…he'sha rock stahr." Sleaze wobbled, and leaned against the bar, drink in hand. Corrinne looked over at Sleaze, then slyly smiled at Charlie, who's heart beat to the point of wanting to burst.

"Oh, really? Well, mister rock star, would you like to dance?" She held out her hands again, and Charlie blushed, readily taking them in his own and feeling himself get swept away onto the dance floor.

Sleaze looked after them, and hiccupped again, before sliding down and falling on his rump.

"Hey, I..I'ma rock st-har, too!"

Bulldog sidled up to Sleaze and pulled him back to his feet, and then jerked a thumb at Charlie, who was already dipping his dance partner skillfully.

"Yeah, but you ain't him, Sleaze. There's a reason we call him 'Smooth,' remember?"

Indeed, Charlie had gotten a bit of a reputation. It had followed him from Ohio, and had stuck easily. He had a way with himself. He was charismatic. He could sweet-talk his way into or out of every possible situation, it seemed. He was commanding and confident, and the ladies swooned over him. Charlie had it all.

And currently, he had Corrinne Wilson spinning around, neon club clothing reflecting in the multi-colored light. She laughed, and watched as her partner broke into a few moves of his own. The song ended, and a slow dance came on. She caught Charlie's gaze, who looked sheepish, and sighed softly, tugging him off the dance floor.

"C'mon, rock star- walk me home?" She toyed with the edge of his sleeve, and he blushed hotly again.

"Sure. I, ah, just gotta tell the guys I'm leaving."

Bulldog saw Charlie approach him from the corner of his eye, and turned with a smile.

"Land another one, Smooth?" He chuckled deeply. Charlie shrugged.

"I don't know, man. I…well, listen. I'm gonna walk her home, and then I'm headed home, myself. Catch ya later!" He turned and hurried off, back towards Corrinne. Bulldog laughed.

"We won't wait up, Smooth! Have fun!"

* * *

><p>Oh yes. There was a song in his heart again as Charlie headed back towards his own place of residence that night, at nearly midnight. Corrinne and him had talked the entire way, and that thank-you kiss on the cheek? Wow. He felt electric. Even without sex, he felt utterly spent in a wonderful way. He couldn't wait to see her again, to quell the nervous butterflies in his stomach.<p>

He rounded the corner. Only four more blocks. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his pants and whistled as he passed under the lonely streetlights. And then the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He groaned. It just wasn't his day to be on the streets, was it?

"Hey. Hey man." Came the nasal voice from behind. Charlie didn't stop walking.

"Hey, motherfucker, I'm talkin' to you!" Now he stopped. Calmly, he threw a piercing hazel glance over his shoulder.

"Hey. Gimme all yer money, man. I'll stick ya-swear to God, I'll do it! Just gimme the money, man, and no one gets hurt. And that watch."

Charlie's lips twitched. He almost snickered.

"'S'not funny, man! Give it!" The brute screamed, stalking closer to his prey. Charlie just stood still, back still turned, and breathed out evenly.

"The fuck? You deaf or stupid or somethin'?"

"Are you finished yet?" Charlie murmured, feeling that same filling sensation come over him.

"What? Alright man, that's it. I asked nicely, but you didn't listen. So now I'm takin' what I want!"

Imperceptibly, Charlie tensed. It happened so fast he didn't consciously register his actions. It would have looked like a brunette blur in a blue suit to anyone else. The man darted forward, a lefty, the knife extended to stuff in between the young accountant's ribs. Charlie dodged to the right, letting his attacker's arm get pinned between his own and his side. With control of the arm and wrist, he was in complete control of the other man's movements.

"What the-"

Charlie folded his left arm and wrenched his attacker's arm over it in the wrong direction, shattering it and getting rewarded with a howl of pain. He threw his elbow back into the man's stomach, then flipped him over his shoulder skillfully, so that he landed on the ground in a heap. Finally, he lashed out and kicked the man in the jaw, hearing a resounding crack that would have made a normal person sick to his stomach.

But Charlie Offdensen wasn't normal. Not at all.

The man struggled to stand, in pain and bleeding, but Charlie was having none of that. He cold-cocked his attacker, and the man stumbled backwards into the brick wall and hit his head, knocking himself unconscious. Charlie seethed for a moment, before relaxing and letting the deep breath in his lungs pass over his lips. He straightened up, brushed himself off, and stuffed his hands back in his pockets.

"Have a nice night." He called over his shoulder, continuing his walk. And then, by chance, he ran a hand up his side- and groaned.

"Great. Another one down." He groaned, and poked two probing fingers through the hole in his favorite blue jacket. Shrugging, Charlie continued on his way, the maniac glint in his eye fading with every marching step.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Breakfast is always a rowdy affair when you share an apartment with three other men. Especially when you and the others are all aspiring rock stars. And the next morning was no different than any other.

"Nggrhgnh."

"Same to you, Smooth."

"Aww, man, have some decency! We don't need to see you waddling around in your underwear this early in the afternoon!" Sleaze rolled his eyes at Charlie, mockingly covering his face to obscure his vision. Charlie, in response, flipped him the bird. Sleaze chuckled.

The groggy brunette slammed the bathroom door shut and relieved himself, before dealing with the consequences of the previous night's fight. If any of the others found out…

Charlie produced a small vial from inside another bottle in the medicine cabinet. He took great care to hide it from prying eyes, as he was trying to build a reputation in the world, and he didn't need it going the way of the dodo before its prime. Carefully unscrewing the cap, it magically turned into a brush covered in a substance that matched the color of his skin. Charlie examined his bruised knuckles. One scrape, some purple spots…all in all, not bad. It wasn't like he'd even gotten touched. After washing and drying his hands, Charlie applied some vitamin E oil, and then when that dried, dabbed the Estee Lauder concealer over the top of that. He was used to this by now- the dabbing and blending for a flawless cover had eluded him at first, but he'd had years of practice. And, his best friend's sister growing up had helped him a bit at first- she was the one who introduced him to this in the first place, as it was.

In minutes, it looked as though he hadn't been in a fight the night before. Approving of this transformation with a smart nod of his head (which still sported aggressive bedhead, but he wasn't showing off for anybody important), Charlie fished his bathrobe off the back of the door and pulled it on, before reemerging and heading towards the table. It was Sleaze's turn to cook, anyway.

"God, thank you, Smooth! None of us needed to see that, man. Like, seriously. Gag me out the door!" Sleaze shook his head in disapproval. Charlie rolled his eyes.

"Eat my shorts, dude." He smirked, with Bulldog and Shane looking at him curiously as he began to wiggle a bit in his chair. Suddenly, Charlie reached down, and hurled his balled up undergarments at Sleaze's head. They hit him square in the side of the face.

A moment of tense silence and stillness followed, though Charlie's smirk still hung proudly on his lips.

"Oh…my…God…" Sleaze peeled them off his face and looked like he was about to cry. Bulldog and Shane practically erupted into laughter.

"Fuckin' A, Smooth, that was totally rad!" Bulldog clapped to show his appreciation.

"Wicked ex." Shane agreed. Charlie and Bulldog both peeled their attention off Sleaze, who was in a personal state of emergency, flailing wildly and scrubbing at his face with a Brillo-pad. Charlie cocked an eyebrow.

"Wicked…ex? Did I, ah, miss a memo?" He went to rub at the back of his hand, and then stopped dead, instead moving to scratch at his wrist, to prevent a wasted motion. Shane nodded slowly.

"Yeah, man, ex. Like…_exquisite_? I don't know…I'm tryin' to make it a thing."

"Psh, sounds better if you just say the whole word, word?" Bulldog held up his sneaker for inspection.

"Huh. Wicked _exquisite_…I kinda like it." Charlie tested it again on his tongue, until suddenly, all four of them were saying it over and over again with the strangest accents they could think of. A menagerie of English, American, Spanish, Italian, and Russian accents cropped up, until they were all laughing so hard they nearly fell out of their chairs. Charlie wiped at his eyes, which didn't sport their obscuring glasses yet, and brushed his hair out of his face, breathing heavily. They calmed. In his fading morning haze, he reached for the newspaper, scanning headlines and reading snippets or articles that interested him.

"Man, why do you read that shit, anyway? Who the hell cares? It's grody." Bulldog morosely found the hole in his favorite pair of hi-tops, and poked his finger through it. Charlie glanced up.

"Because I like it." He blinked, never understanding his boys and their rebellion from local news. What was the big deal? He liked to know what was going on in the world. It helped him write lyrics.

"Nerd."

"Wuss."

It was playful bickering- happened all the time around the table. No one ever took any serious offense, even when it got more daring and more drastic than that. The coffee pot finished gurgling, and Sleaze deftly cranked out four cups and passed three of them around the table. The tell-tale crackle of bacon hitting the frying pan lifted Charlie's spirits about getting fired, and he smiled to himself. His stomach growled knowingly.

"Smells good." Shane murmured, hands shaking. He sniffed and looked up at Charlie with a pleading gaze.

"Awww no." Bulldog saw the look, and shook his head firmly. "You know his rule- none of that at breakfast." He started poking at the other sneaker, then, putting them down on the table like it was nothing. Charlie wrinkled his nose- yeah, the life of four straight guys in one house seemed glamorous- sharing girls, always friends- but when you lived it, it was downright disgusting at times. Suddenly, a vision of the woman in white flashed through his mind, and he sighed.

"Come on, dude, I really need to take the edge off." Shane begged, resisting the urge to rub at his arms. He was cold. Charlie thought for a moment.

"Well…I suppose…but I want some, too."

Shane's eyes lit up, and he looked like he could've hugged Charlie. Immediately, he bolted to his room for his mirror, razor blade, and drugs. Charlie smiled. Shane only lived for two things- Cocaine (hence his nickname, Cocaine Shane), and music. Getting a smile out of him was rare unless it involved at least one of those things, anyway, so Charlie took them as they came.

Shane reappeared, substances in hand, and furiously began doling out and chopping his personal breakfast on the smooth reflective surface. Charlie tightened his bathrobe and went looking for a suitable straw- upon finding one, his senses seemed to dull.

He enjoyed the high. That much was true. Much like Shane, few things really got under Charlie's skin and made him feel absolutely electric. He was certainly no drug addict- he rarely touched the stuff unless feeling particularly in need of a distraction or some good fun- but he could say it provoked some of the best times in his teenage and adult life. This was because it usually coincided with such things as sex and music. Yet, even during the high, he usually became very reflective. It didn't last unless you pumped yourself full of the stuff. He'd seen hookers overdose on coke, and it wasn't a pretty sight. Definitely not something he wanted for himself. But there had to be another way to get the same feeling. Something besides performing and sex and drugs. Something that was permanent.

"Smooth? Hello? Anybody in there? It's your hit, man." Shane looked refreshed, and sat back, enjoying the dopamine that coursed through his system unabated. Charlie blinked owlishly.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, thanks." He took the other half of the cut straw and was carefully passed the mirror. There were a couple hits left- he only wanted one. Bowing his head and inhaling through the straw, he snorted the cocaine and then wiped his nose on his sleeve, waiting.

It hit soon enough. His worries about the fight, his job, and the dull throb in his sore knuckles vanished, replaced by a desire to get up and go do something extra productive. But it would have to wait- he knew it was just the drug talking anyway. The small amount in his system would fade in less than fifteen minutes, and as he wasn't interested in keeping his high, he would just have to function normally. Regardless of the appetite decreasing substance now in his buzzing system, Charlie's stomach growled again, this time more audibly.

"I'm hurryin', dammit." Sleaze slid the popping bacon onto four plates, which were dressed with pancakes and eggs. He was definitely the best breakfast cook of them all, with Charlie in hot pursuit over dinner. He set the dishes on the table, and sat himself down.

"There. Done. Eat it." Sleaze managed to get out before staring plate demolition. Charlie chuckled and sipped his coffee before burying himself behind the newspaper and picking up his fork. He shoveled eggs into his watering mouth as fast as he dared, trying to quiet his innards.

As the four of them continued to eat, conversation struck up, but Charlie only murmured "uh huh's" in response. He was getting into the article he was reading about a rare backflip takeover at a corporation his father had put him to work at. Now that sounded like something fun to be a part of…provided you were on the side that profited. Maybe he could offer his services and-

No. No way. What was he thinking? He was a musician. That was the end of it. He was going to be a famous guitarist if it killed him. Nothing was going to stand in his way.

Still…

It sounded thrilling, he had to admit.

"So, Charlie, we know you're brainstorming for new ways to come up with the rent and shit…care to let us in?"

"Uh…what?"

"Fuck, man, do you ever hear a word we say when you've got your stupid newspaper in front of you?"

"Ah…"

"I've got it!" Shane cried happily.

"What?"

"Charlie can go work as a journalist!"

Bulldog guffawed over bacon.

"Shane, you know he can't write anything but lyrics and quarterly reports."

Sleaze chuckled.

"Yeah, man, think of the children!" He replied dramatically.

"What children?"

"All those orphans sleeping on newspaper have to have entertainment somehow. They probably read their beds, or some bogus shit like that. I mean, those poor, poor orphans! They've got it bad enough- don't make 'em read Smooth's stories!"

"Shut up, barf bag." Charlie murmured behind the paper.

"Aww, bite me, man."

"Hey, you're one to talk- remember your drama tryouts senior year?"

Sleaze quieted immediately at this. Shane practically giggled at the memory.

"Fuck, dude, you sucked, like, to the max."

"And you would definitely know what it's like to suck that much." Sleaze countered, growing irritated.

Voices were being raised now- some in anger, others in play. It still wasn't a full out fight, but…

Charlie, feeling his re-directed instigation was successful, smiled and went back to reading. He turned the page- the "want ads" were filled.

"Let's see here…" he squinted, bringing the paper closer to his nose. Time for another trip to the optometrist, it seemed. He was starting to have a hard time seeing with his glasses, too.

"Well, I didn't want to- your boyfriend forced me down."

"Aw, fuck, no, you know that I'm not-"

_Maintenance Worker Needed: Minimum Wage Only._ No, that wouldn't do.

"Yeah, I called him a flamer. He yelled at me and told me he wasn't. Then he hit me with his purse." Shane commented to Bulldog, who snickered.

"Well at least I'm not the one who owns more cosmetic supplies than half the valley population. And what are you laughin' at, 'Dog? You wear neon pink shorts!"

_Small Firm looking for Accountant. Open office space, chance of promotion._ Well, that looked promising, but it was sort of a step backward…

"The ladies love 'em, man."

"As much as they love that butchered alien eating your brain? Oh, wait, sorry, that's your fade!"

"Motherfucker, I'm gonna-"

_Strapping young model needed for photography job. Inquirers over 19 years of age need not apply. Bring cocaine. I do a lot of cocaine. Seriously._ Charlie whistled through his teeth softly. That one was just creepy. He desperately hoped he'd never have the misfortune of running into the person who paid for that one. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed.

"Guys?"

"Take it back, penis-breath!"

"Aw, shit, I'm so scared! What are you gonna do, hit me with your 'man-purse' again?"

"Ah, guys?"

"You little shit!"

"Man-purse!"

"Shorts!"

"Lamebrain!"

"GUYS!" Charlie shouted over the din, tipping his newspaper down so he could see over the top of it. Sleaze had Shane by the hair, yanking. Bulldog was kneeling on the table, with Sleaze's head locked under his right arm and grinding his face into his syrup covered plate. He had Shane tucked tightly under his other bicep. Shane had one drool-covered finger stuck in Bulldog's left ear. All three of them looked up in surprise, the plate that Sleaze's face had been stuck to dislodging and clattering back to the table when he lifted his head.

"…Purse." Shane coughed quietly. A swift yank on his blonde locks shut him up. Charlie glared at them, cocaine high over.

"F.Y.I., I haven't come up with anything just yet. I was thinkin' we just have to play the circuit a bit more and cut back on stuff we don't need. Or, here's a, ah, novel thought- you guys could get jobs!" He smiled falsely and gestured to them all.

The barking laughter that followed put him in poor spirits, so he quietly excused himself from the table and went to find something to wear for the day. The three he left behind finally quelled their mirth and looked at each other, all smiles again.

"You think he's serious?"

"Probably. He did just get fired yesterday, and then we dragged him out to party hardy. He hasn't had time to think yet."

"He's a fuckin' genius- he'll come up with something…right?"

Smiles fell. Truth was, they were worried. If Charlie couldn't keep his job…there was no hope for any of them. And there was no way they were going to bend and work for the man. He could, of course, if he wanted to- it paid the bills. But it wasn't for them. So what happened if Charlie's brilliant mind didn't come up with a plan, and soon? They didn't have a whole lot of extra to play with, and knowing them, it wouldn't last long.

Bulldog sat back, wiping his ear. He appeared to be deep in thought as he stared hard at the newspaper Charlie had left behind in his recent egress. Something was playing on the edges of his mind.

Charlie reappeared, dressed in a white tee and jeans, his white sneakers squeaking on the kitchen tiles.

"I'm going out. Gotta go see about my baby. Don't kill each other." He said blankly as he searched the adjoining living room (which was rather messy, but what did one expect when four single men lived in the same enclosed space?) for his leather jacket.

"Does that include impromptu games of Russian Roulette?" Shane called out. They heard the front door creak open.

"…No." And then the door shut.

Shane chuckled, and then he caught the thoughtful expression on Bulldog's face.

"What doth trouble thee, O fearsome canine?" The blond quipped.

It hit Bulldog like a ton of bricks in that instant.

"Guys, congratulate me."

"Why?" Sleaze was still trying to de-stick his face from the syrup, and wiggled his nose.

"Because Charlie's not the only one who has at least half a brain."

Shane grinned.

"Uh oh. What's goin' on under that fade of yours?"

Bulldog flashed his blinding teeth.

"I know how we can find Charlie a job."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The relatively short walk to the garage was mostly uphill. Charlie cursed the city's rolling hills under his breath softly as he panted, nearing the hill's precipice. As he turned into the parking lot, something suddenly hit him in the back of the ankle. He turned, a little surprised, and looked down. A tennis ball had come to a halt by his feet. Gingerly, he bent down and picked it up, looking around for its owner. A young blond girl ran up to him, innocent, but wet eyes flickering between his and the tennis ball in a silent question. He took in the bruises and the cuts on her hands, knees, and elbows, and then he heard the snickering. Three little boys were quietly laughing to themselves on the other side of the street. He frowned, raising an eyebrow, and dropped to one knee in front of the girl, putting on his best concerned face.

"Is this your ball?" He asked with a smile. She nodded, and Charlie handed it back to her, earning himself a small smile, which revealed two missing bottom teeth. He grinned back.

"Thanks, mister!"

"Don't mention it. Now, are those boys bothering you?"

"Yeah, they said they wanted to play, but then they stole my ball and pushed me down and called me names." Her lower lip trembled again as she said it. Charlie nodded in sympathy.

"I see. Well, ah, that's just terrible, now isn't it? But I have a little tip for you, if it should happen again."

She looked at him with such eager intensity that he couldn't help but chuckle, and leaned forward, whispering his secret in her ear. She flashed him a full smile when he pulled back and straightened up.

"So do you think you can remember that?" He asked, putting his hands on his hips and giving the boys a stern look. They were beginning to appear nervous.

"Yes sir!" Came the saluted reply. Charlie laughed, laying a hand on the girl's head and ruffling her blond hair.

"Good kid. What's your name, anyway?" The girl bit her lip with a shy giggle and twirled in her puffy skirt.

"Rebecca," she answered after a moment.

"Nice to meet you, Rebecca. I'm Charlie. Now, listen, if those boys bother you again, you just, ah, do what I told you, alright?"

She nodded and waved at him as he motioned her off, and skipped across the street. He turned around and continued his trek towards the garage, when he heard the distinct noises of young boys calling names, and then a muted _thwap_ sound, followed by the G-rated threats and insults only Charlie could come up with on the fly and leave in the arsenal of a child tennis player.

Just as he was about to enter the shop, a lone car rolled by with the top down. Charlie did a double take as a somewhat familiar pair of eyes met his on the way past, followed by a girlish quirk of softly painted lips. And then, she was gone, her tail lights the only reminder of the fact that he had really just seen her again in a city that big. A lopsided smile settled itself on his face as he ducked under the half-pulled garage door.

From somewhere, a radio played Miami Sound Machine, and he slid across the hood of a small sedan and danced his way through the garage while throwing suave greetings around, coming to a halt on his feet underneath a swinging florescent light and crouching into a squat besides a body that looked more like an oil slick with legs than a man.

"How is she, Doc?" He murmured. The man on the ground sat up and wiped his hands off on his gray jumpsuit.

"Well, Smooth, I'm afraid-"

The mechanic never got to finish, as Charlie groaned and buried his face in his hands with an exasperated and worried "Oh God." His mechanic laughed, clapping him on the back, heedless of the oil and grease still on his skin.

"I was gonna say I'm afraid she's better than ever. Yep, looks like you'll be stuck with this junker for quite some time. You know, I have an eighty-six IROC z-twenty-eight you might be interested in…"

The look Charlie gave him could have sliced daggers through his corneas.

"Carlos, my man…you may be like a brother to me, but if you ever, and I mean _ever_ suggest I get a new car without good reason, I will gut you and, ah, use your innards as packing for sausages designed to feed the homeless."

Carlos brushed at his moustache for a moment, seeming to mull this over, before shrugging.

"Alright, Smooth, you've got your piece of shit battleship back. Try not to massacre your suspension this time, alright? Goddamn, you must take the hills at like, one-ten or something!"

Charlie chuckled, rolling his eyes at Carlos, and slapped a wad of bills into his hand.

"This should cover it. Nice job polishing her up, by the, ah, way. Thanks for that."

Carlos held out a hand, and Charles helped him to his feet.

"Yeah, you can thank Tony for that next time you see him. You and him, man…I dunno what's so special about this car of yours, but I guess I'm the only one not gettin' it." He clicked his tongue a few times and resettled his red baseball cap on top of his messy black mane.

Charlie shook his head and jumped over the door into the driver's seat, and settled in with a smirk. He let his hand fall to the shifter, feeling the reality of it in his palm. He'd missed his car. From his seat, he looked up at Carlos, who was still toying with his facial hair, now using Charlie's side mirror as a means to inspect himself.

"That's just it, Carlos. This was Tony's good luck ride, remember? The reason we get it and you don't is because now, we're _gettin' it_ and you're not!" With that, Charlie plucked his keys out of the stunned mechanic's hand and brought his baby to life.

The 1967 bright yellow Chevy Camaro seemed to roar in the tiny garage as its pistons fired happily, and it peeled out as Carlos began to shout a string of Spanish expletives at its rear bumper. The little kids were long gone and the street was still empty, and Charles took the tight downhill corner at a higher speed than he knew he should have. The Camaro, though, didn't seem to complain, and simply purred as he raced along the varying road, a seasoned sailor experiencing a rush in the middle of a turbulent storm.

For a while, Charles just drove. The radio humored him with some of his favorite songs, including making him laugh as AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" began to play right as he took an on-ramp to the nearest stretch of California highway. The entire car thrummed with his heartbeat, and he felt like a bird. He was but a yellow blur in an asphalt world, and that suited him just fine.

Finally, he began to make his way back home, and took the slow way back through a few cities on the outskirts of San Francisco. Carlos had done a great job- she handled better than ever.

It was sheer luck that, as the streets grew more and more familiar and he came to a full stop at a set of lights, a flash of white and shining gold caught his attention. His heart skipped a few beats and fluttered in his chest. Corrinne Wilson looked up from her seat at an outdoor café, the brilliant lemon color of the Camaro impossible to ignore in her peripheral vision. Charlie grinned at her, and she looked a little shocked, but then proceeded to smile back gently. The traffic signal light turned green just then, and reluctantly, Charlie pulled forward, but made a quick turn around the block, and circled back down the same road he'd just came up.

Corrinne was just paying for her coffee and lunch as she stood up, her white suit smartly showing off just what kind of woman she was. Charlie slowed down, thankful there was no one behind him, and pulled up along side her, car moving at a snail's pace. Corrinne shook her head in laughter.

"Small world, huh?" He called over to her. She looked over at him.

"Either that, or you're stalking me, mister rock star." He shrugged.

"Would you, ah, complain if I was?"

Corrinne didn't answer, instead shifting the weight of her purse. Her look of amusement didn't falter, however, so Charlie took the initiative again.

"You know, there's one way to stop me from _bumping_ into you like this."

"Oh?" She looked coy. God, if his stomach didn't stop flip flopping he was going to need the interior detailed again.

"Yeah. We could, you know, go for a drive. You would probably be able to tell if I'm stalking you about halfway through the trip."

"Then what? Are you going to take me out to some remote location and murder me with your axe?" She made strumming motions as she spoke so he'd catch the joke.

"Hmm…well, ah, probably not at first. I was thinking we could, ah, go to the beach or catch a movie, if you're interested."

"Then will you murder me with your axe?"

"Yes, then I will take you out to the darkest alley I can find and strum you senseless."

Corrinne made a face at their terrible pun and gestured to her clothes.

"I can't. I have to get back to work."

"So do I."

"And just what is it that you do, exactly?"

Charlie came to a stop at the corner, listening to the click of heels that had been moving in time with the rotation of his motor also cease for a moment as Corrinne waited for the crosswalk signal to change.

"I'm a, ah, freelance conversationalist and a professional day-brightener." He answered casually.

Corrinne giggled, and he was elated to hear it. It was adorable. Her head lolled in his direction, teeth flashing white.

"But I'm _working._" She stressed.

"Are you good at your job?"

"Yes."

"In with the boss?"

"As much as possible."

"Had a vacation or sick day recently?"

"None at all."

"Then get in the car."

The crosswalk light blinked white, but there was no one to notice it, because Corrinne had hopped into Charles' Camaro like a pro (even in a skirt), and they were thundering back down towards the highway, the roads taking them wherever she wanted to go, as long as he could go there with her.

* * *

><p>"I feel like we're back in fuckin' arts and crafts."<p>

"Thank God we no longer have bunk beds."

Sleaze, Bulldog, and Shane sat on the living room floor, which was amassed with piles of paper. Some were intact, others were cut up into little strips. Each of them wielded a pair of scissors, and were busy cutting the full size sheets into manageable portions for their project.

Bulldog's genius idea to find Charlie a job had turned out to be more work than it seemed worth. The boys had gathered every single newspaper, qualified help wanted application, and job offer they could find from the last week and a half that was located in San Francisco, and laid them out on the living room floor. Their first task was to sort the repeats, and their second was to cut out the remainder. Those strips were to be placed in a hat, and then every day, each of them would have to reach in and choose one strip at random. They would then play "Rock, Paper, Scissors" until there was only one winner, and the winner would hand his strip to Charlie, who would have to go check out the listed job or be harassed mercilessly, forever.

They had been at the sorting portion of their task for a few hours, and were finally down to cutting up the last few want ads. Sleaze wiggled his fingers in the handles of the scissors and winced.

"Damn, I think _he_ should pay _us_ for this! We've worked our fingers to the bone. Fuck, ya think we can sue him for minimum wage?"

"Nah, he'll hand our asses to us on a silver platter." Bulldog ran a hand over his fade, placing another bundle of clippings in the hat.

"Which would cost more than our combined salaries." Shane added.

Suddenly, there were no more papers to cut, and the three of them sank back into the lofty stacks of furniture cushions, bed pillows, and throw pillows they had also surrounded themselves with. A collective sigh escaped the three band mates.

"Ya think he was serious about us gettin' jobs?"

"Probably."

"So…are we gonna get jobs?" Sleaze sounded timid, which was unusual for the burly man.

"Oh hell no."

"Good."

"'Dog?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you really think this is, like, gonna work?"

"I sure as shit hope so, Shane, I sure as shit hope so."

"Yeah, otherwise we're gonna have to do this again next week."

Everyone groaned.

A few minutes of silence without the sound of snipping followed before a key hit the door lock, and Charlie materialized in the doorway, looking absolutely blissful. He was humming to himself as he hung his keys on the hook beside the door, and was just about to slither out of his jacket when he noticed the three sets of bloodshot eyes staring at him from the floor, ready to pounce.

"Oh shit." Was all he had time to muster before his bandmates tackled him to the floor, the newly dubbed "fedora of mystery" carefully in tow.


End file.
